The Fallacies of Religious Clerics by N. Fakhr - HTML preview

What Is Morality?

Thinkers from different cultures and different periods of history have proposed many different ideas about morality.

But one principle has appeared again and again:

“If you would not want something done to you, do not do it to others.”

At first, this may seem like a very simple rule.

But moral philosophers have discussed and developed principles of this kind in many different ways.

They have also shown that general moral rules sometimes need further explanation.

Otherwise, a rule that sounds fair may still be used to justify harming a minority or a weaker person.

For example, about 2,500 years ago, Confucius (551–479 BC) said:

“What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others.”

The basic idea is easy to understand.

Before doing something to another person, we can ask:

“Would I want someone else to do this to me?”

Many centuries later, the German philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) developed a different approach to morality.

One of his best-known principles was:

“Act only in accordance with that maxim through which you can at the same time will that it become a universal law.”

The wording is difficult, but the basic idea can be expressed more simply.

Before acting according to a rule, we should ask:

Could I rationally accept this as a rule that everyone could follow?

Kant’s principle is not the same as the rule stated by Confucius.

But both require us to look beyond what is convenient for us in one particular situation.

We cannot simply create one rule for ourselves and another for everyone else.

The nineteenth-century English philosopher John Stuart Mill (1806–1873) approached morality differently again.

He defended a utilitarian view in which happiness plays a central role.

He was also a strong defender of individual liberty.

In On Liberty, while defending freedom of thought and discussion, he wrote:

“If all mankind minus one, were of one opinion, and only one person were of the contrary opinion, mankind would be no more justified in silencing that one person, than he, if he had the power, would be justified in silencing mankind.”

The three thinkers did not have the same theory of morality.

Their ideas should not be treated as though they were simply different versions of one rule.

But we can still see an important concern running through these examples:

We should not judge an action only by whether it benefits us when we are the ones doing it.

We must also consider other people.

And we should ask whether the principles we apply to them can also be applied fairly and consistently to ourselves.

For the discussion that follows, this gives us a simple starting point:

If I claim that something is morally acceptable when I do it to someone else, I should ask whether I would still consider it morally acceptable if someone else did the same thing to me.

How Religious Clerics Respond to Morality as a Standard

All religions teach that stealing, murder, backbiting, false accusations, and lying are wrong.

They also teach people to respect their parents, help the poor, and care for orphans.

Few people would object to teachings like these.

We feel safer when other people treat us according to such moral rules.

And when they expect the same kind of behavior from us, we usually understand why.

Even when someone breaks one of these rules, they do not normally take pride in doing so.

They may call what they did a mistake or a moment of weakness.

They may admit that it was wrong.

They see themselves as guilty both in the eyes of other people and in the eyes of their religion.

Some religions go even further and forbid harming or killing animals.

Sometimes this is connected with a belief in rebirth: an animal may be regarded as a human being who has been reborn in another form.

So even this rule may be indirectly connected with the general principle of morality we discussed earlier.

Now suppose I am a religious cleric and someone says to me:

“All religions, and many other systems of belief, teach morality. So the moral teachings of your religion are not evidence that your religion is true or comes from God.”

I may reply:

“Those religions contain some good teachings, but they also contain immoral ones.

Everything my religion teaches is moral.”

This answer may seem simple.

But by giving it, I have indirectly admitted three very important things.

First, if another religion contains an immoral command, then I consider that evidence against its divine origin.

Either it does not come from my God and is therefore a human-made religion, or it has been corrupted and is no longer worthy of being followed.

Second, the same standard must apply to my own religion.

If an immoral command can also be found in my religion, then my religion must face the same judgment.

Either it does not come from God, or it has been corrupted.

I cannot use one standard for other religions and a different standard for my own.

Third—and most importantly—I have admitted that I know what morality is.

I have also admitted that I am capable of using morality as a standard for judging religions.

After all, I have already used that standard to judge other religions.

So I must be willing to use it on my own religion as well.

Now suppose someone points to a rule in my religion that seems to violate the definition of morality we have accepted.

What happens?

My first response may simply be:

“That rule does not exist in my religion.”

Because I am biased in favor of my religion, I may dismiss the question immediately.

I may not investigate it at all.

In fact, I may avoid investigating it precisely because I do not want to discover that the rule really does exist.

But suppose I already know about the rule.

Or suppose I investigate it and discover that it really is part of my religion.

Now I need another answer.

I may say:

“You cannot judge this rule without considering the circumstances of the time.”

Perhaps the rule was moral when it was introduced.

Perhaps special circumstances made it necessary at that time.

This can be a valid answer—but only if I can provide evidence for it.

Suppose the founder or messenger of my religion stated, when giving the rule itself, that it applied only under particular conditions.

Perhaps those conditions were clearly described.

Perhaps it was also explained that when those conditions disappeared, the rule would no longer apply.

In that case, saying that the rule was limited to those circumstances is reasonable.

But suppose no such limitation was given.

The rule was stated without a time limit.

No conditions were given explaining when it would stop applying.

In that case, I face a problem.

If the rule is still part of my religion but I now judge it to be immoral, then according to the moral standard I myself chose, my religion contains an immoral rule.

And that works against its claim to divine authority.

I may try to escape the problem by saying:

“Times have changed. That rule belonged to the past and should no longer be followed.”

But now the person questioning me can ask:

“Who decided that?”

God gave the rule without stating that it would expire.

Now we human beings are deciding that the rule should no longer be followed because we consider it immoral.

So who is actually judging whom?

Are we using God’s command to discover what is moral?

Or are we using our own moral judgment to decide which of God’s commands should still be obeyed?

If we ourselves decide that an unconditional divine rule should no longer be followed because we now consider it immoral, then our moral judgment has become the higher standard.

Religion is being judged by us.

We are no longer using religion to discover what is moral; we are using morality to decide which parts of religion should still be followed.

And this creates a deeper problem.

I have always argued that human beings need religion because they cannot discover the path to happiness and salvation entirely on their own.

But now I am saying that human beings themselves can decide when a divine command has become unacceptable.

If we can do that, the person questioning me may ask:

“Then what did we need religion for in the first place?”

And another question follows:

“If human beings themselves can make this judgment, why do they need religious clerics to make it for them?”

As a religious cleric, I understand the difficulty.

If I reject the rule because I consider it immoral, I face two problems at once.

On the one hand, I am admitting that my religion contains a rule that I now consider immoral.

That weakens its claim to be divine.

On the other hand, I am placing human judgment above a rule presented as a command from God.

Neither result is comfortable for me.

So another option may seem easier:

Do not talk about the rule.

Instead, I can repeatedly speak about the teachings whose morality is beyond doubt.

I can speak about helping the poor.

I can speak about respecting parents.

I can speak about honesty, kindness, and care for orphans.

I can proudly point to these teachings as examples of the morality of my religion.

And perhaps, after enough time has passed, hardly anyone will remember the more difficult rules.

But what if someone does remember?

What if they ask me directly about one of them?

I may say:

“I need to study this matter more carefully. I will answer you another time.”

I may even answer in a way that gives the impression that a completely convincing explanation already exists somewhere.

I merely need to find it, read it, and bring it back.

So the question is postponed without being answered.

But sometimes even this option is not available to me.

Perhaps the rule is still officially regarded as applicable.

Perhaps, as a religious cleric, I must defend it.

In that case, I may say:

“Yes, the rule still applies. And because God commanded it, it must be moral.”

The problem, I may explain, is not with the rule.

The problem is with our understanding.

We human beings simply cannot understand why the rule is moral.

We must obey it now.

Perhaps in the next world, we will finally understand why it was right.

But this answer comes at a very high price.

Remember the standard with which we began.

I had claimed that morality could be used to judge religions.

I had even used immoral rules in other religions as evidence against them.

But now I am saying:

Human beings are not capable of recognizing what is moral.

If that is true, how could I have used morality to judge other religions?

How could I have claimed that their rules were immoral?

And how can I ask other people to recognize the morality of my religion as evidence that it comes from God?

I cannot have it both ways.

If human beings are capable of recognizing morality, then my religion can be judged by that standard.

If human beings are not capable of recognizing morality, then I cannot use that standard to prove my religion or reject anyone else’s.

In the second case, morality loses its place as a standard for judging religions.

As a religious cleric, I can no longer criticize another religion on moral grounds.

I have already admitted that human beings—including myself—cannot reliably determine what is moral.

So now let us return to the original problem.

Someone has shown me a rule in my religion that appears immoral.

And I have been unable to show, according to the definition of morality we accepted, that the rule is actually moral.

What choices remain?

If I remain faithful to the standard I chose, I may have to accept that this is evidence against the divine origin of my religion.

Or I can protect my religion by abandoning the standard whenever it works against my beliefs.

But if I choose the second path, I must recognize what I am doing.

Morality is no longer really my standard.

I use it when it supports my religion.

I put it aside when it works against my religion.

I am protecting my belief from the result of my own standard.

And once again, the same pattern appears:

My belief must win.

At that point, I am no longer asking:

“What conclusion does my standard lead me to?”

I am asking:

“How can I make my standard lead me back to what I already believe?”

When it comes to my religion, discovering the truth is no longer my first priority.

In the end, the truth must be whatever I already believe.

Many believers, however, do not take this path.

They continue to believe that human beings can recognize what is moral.

And for that very reason, they continue to regard the presence of an immoral rule in a religion as evidence that the religion does not come from God.

Examining Some Islamic Rules by the Standard of Morality

Twelver Shia Islam2, like other Islamic denominations, considers itself to be the true form of Islam.

It regards its own teachings and rules as representing Islam as it was truly intended by the Prophet Muhammad and approved by God.

In deriving God’s commands, it relies primarily on the Quran, the traditions of the Prophet Muhammad, and the teachings of the Shia Imams3.

Reason and scholarly consensus are also used. But they operate within the framework of the Quran and tradition. They cannot be used to reach a conclusion that contradicts them.

And we should not confuse this kind of reason with the ordinary reasoning by which we make decisions according to our own judgment of what seems best.

Shia clerics and believers also take pride in the morality of their religious rules.

Even the principle we discussed earlier—

“What you would not want for yourself, do not want for others”

—is attributed to the first Shia Imam.

Now suppose I am a Shia cleric and someone asks me:

“Are all Islamic rules moral?”

My answer will be yes.

I may point to the prohibitions against backbiting, false accusations, murder, physical assault, and theft.

I may explain how seriously Islam takes the rights of individuals.

I may even say that if someone strikes another person and merely causes their skin to become red, compensation must be paid.

Anyone who violates another person’s rights, I may say, will eventually pay for it—either in this world or in the next.

I may even claim that moral teachings like these have attracted many people to Islam.

But now suppose someone opens the books of Islamic law used in my own tradition—such as Al-Urwah al-Wuthqa or Jawahir al-Kalam—or turns to the Quran, the traditions of the Prophet Muhammad, or the words of the Imams.

And suppose they show me rules that do not seem consistent with the definition of morality we have accepted.

What happens then?

Consider, for example, Christians, Jews, or Zoroastrians living under an Islamic government.

If they have entered into a treaty with that government, or live under its protection and accept the conditions of dhimma, they must pay an annual tax called jizya, whose amount is determined by the Islamic ruler.

According to the interpretation described here, this payment is not to be received in a way that preserves their dignity. Their humiliation is to be made apparent when they pay it, with Quran 9:29 cited in support.

Some Shia legal texts also permit Muslims to backbite, insult, falsely accuse, or spread harmful gossip among such people.

Under these rules, their lives and property are protected, but their reputation is not given the same protection.

And if they are neither protected by a dhimma agreement nor covered by a treaty with the Islamic state, even those protections may no longer apply.

Under the rulings being discussed here, if a Muslim kills such a person, the Muslim cannot be subjected to qisas—retaliatory punishment—or required to pay diya, blood money, on the same basis.

Their property may also be taken.

As a modern religious cleric, I may have tried not to speak about rules like these.

Why?

Because I may fear that believers with weaker faith will be disturbed by them and move away from my religion.

But now that someone has raised the issue directly, I need an answer.

I may say:

“This is God’s command. Perhaps the purpose is to place unbelievers under pressure so that they will accept Islam and be saved.”

Later, we will examine whether this argument succeeds.

But even before doing that, one thing has become clear.

If such pressure has been used to bring people toward Islam, then we cannot say that people were attracted to Islam only because of the moral beauty of its teachings.

This is especially true of those who converted while living under such pressure.

I should add something important here.

I am not claiming that rules of this general kind are unique to Islam.

Christianity, Judaism, and many other religions have also contained comparable rules.

Throughout history, many religions have enforced discriminatory laws when they held great political power in a particular place.

In the modern period, especially after the creation of the United Nations and the international acceptance of human-rights principles that regard people of different sexes, races, and religions as entitled to equal rights, rules of this kind are discussed and applied far less openly.

But let us return to my response as a religious cleric.

I said that these rules may have existed in order to encourage people to become Muslims.

Once they become Muslims, I may argue, they enter the moral protection provided by Islamic law.

By giving this answer, I am trying to return to the standard of morality.

I am saying that Islam is still fundamentally moral.

These apparently immoral rules are merely exceptions, justified by a higher purpose: bringing other people to Islam and therefore to salvation.

But the critic can now point out a problem.

If I accept this reasoning, then morality toward all human beings is not an absolute requirement in my religion.

There are circumstances in which another goal can justify setting it aside.

And if that is true, I can no longer reject another religion merely because it contains a rule that appears immoral.

Perhaps that religion also has a “higher purpose” for its exception.

If a higher purpose can excuse an immoral rule in my religion, I must allow other religions to make the same defense.

I may now try another answer.

I may say:

“A person who is not Muslim does not naturally have the same right to respect. The rights of a believer do not apply to that person.”

But in giving this answer, I have forgotten the original question.

The questioner was using morality as a standard for judging whether my religion is true.

They wanted to ask:

Is my religion moral?

And if it is not, can it really come from God?

My answer now requires them to accept my religion before they use morality to judge it.

First, they must accept that my religion is true.

Then, if they discover that some group is not treated according to the moral principle we began with, they must simply accept that this group was not entitled to those rights in the first place.

With this method, I can explain away almost any religious discrimination.

Whenever my religion gives fewer rights to a particular group, I can say:

“The problem is not with the rule. That group simply does not have that right.”

But other religions can do exactly the same thing.

They, too, can redefine the rights of different groups until none of their own discriminatory rules counts as immoral.

Then no religion contains an immoral rule.

And if every religion can defend itself in this way, believers in other religions have no reason to be attracted to Islam or Shia Islam because of its supposedly superior morality.

Using the same reasoning, they can declare their own religion perfectly moral as well.

Now someone may raise another objection.

They may say:

“There are rules in your religion showing that even among Shia believers themselves, morality is not always applied equally.”

They may point to differences between the legal rights of believing men and believing women.

And they may argue that some of these differences conflict with the principle:

“What you would not want for yourself, do not do to others.”

For example, they may point out that under traditional Shia rules, a woman’s diya4 is half that of a man.

If a man intentionally kills a woman, qisas5 may require that an amount corresponding to the difference in diya first be paid to the killer’s side.

Differences also exist in diya for bodily injuries and in inheritance.

A husband may divorce his wife without her consent.

The critic may also point to rules concerning a husband’s treatment of a wife who refuses marital obedience.

What might I say as a religious cleric?

My first response may be:

“The rules for men and women have to be different because men and women are inherently different.”

I may cite Quran 4:34 in support and interpret it as giving men authority and responsibility over women because of differences God has established between them.

We will discuss this verse in greater detail later.

But notice what has happened to my definition of morality.

It has effectively become:

“What you would not want for yourself, do not do to people who share your religion and your sex.”

If that is my standard, then I must also understand why someone who does not belong to my sex—or does not belong to my religion—might prefer another religion or philosophy that gives them greater rights.

Otherwise, I need to persuade them of the truth of my religion using some standard other than morality.

Fortunately—from my point of view as a religious cleric—the guardian of the mind that has developed within many believers, together with their religious bias, can make my task easier.

Even if morality is their chosen standard, many believers who encounter such rules may never follow the analysis far enough to reach a conclusion that threatens their faith.

They may change the standard themselves before reaching that point.

But as a religious cleric, I still have a reason to save morality as a standard if I can.

Why?

Because being regarded as immoral is damaging to my religion.

And in the modern world, that reputation may make future generations less willing to accept it.

But another question remains.

Suppose I have now made morality dependent on sex and religious belief, rather than simply on being human.

The critic can still ask me about slavery.

A person did not become a slave only by being captured in war.

The children of slaves could also be born into slavery.

Imagine, for example, a Muslim man who owns a male Muslim slave whose ancestors were enslaved generations earlier.

Under the traditional rules being discussed here, the owner may arrange a marriage between this slave and one of his female slaves.

He may also own the children born from that relationship.

He may later end the marriage and himself have sexual access to the female slave.

The child may eventually be sold.

A slave does not independently own property except to the extent that the owner allows it.

The results of the slave’s labor belong to the owner, and the slave is required to perform the work demanded by the owner.

If a free person intentionally kills another person’s slave, the legal consequence may be payment of the slave’s value to the owner rather than qisas.

The owner may also have authority to judge and punish the slave without being required to possess the qualifications normally demanded of a judge.

Now apply our moral standard.

Would the owner himself want to be born into a world in which another person had such authority over him for his entire life?

Clearly, he would not.

And this time I cannot escape by saying that the person receiving fewer rights is a non-Muslim or a woman.

The example involves a male Muslim slave.

So even after narrowing my moral principle to people of my own religion and my own sex, the problem remains.

What can I say now?

Perhaps I will say:

“Let me study the wisdom behind slavery more carefully. I am sure I will find the answer.”

This allows me to postpone the problem.

Because almost any more direct answer would require me to admit, at that moment, that morality is not actually the standard by which I judge the truth of my religion.

But this kind of answer is more likely if I am a religious scholar accustomed to study and debate.

An ordinary believer may give a simpler response.

They may say:

“The slave owner should know that even if God has given him this authority, he should not abuse it.”

Or:

“Perhaps this situation is a test for both the owner and the slave.”

But these answers move away from the original question.

The question was not:

“Will every person who is given this power abuse it?”

The question was:

“What does the religion itself say a person is morally permitted to do?”

That distinction is essential.

Every religion reveals its position toward an action through the way it treats that action—whether it commands it, forbids it, rewards it, punishes it, or explicitly permits it.

Suppose a religion explicitly allows someone to separate the child of a slave from the child’s parents while the child is still young and sell that child to another person.

And suppose it does not condemn or punish that act, either in this world or in the next.

I do not mean that the religion simply says nothing about the matter.

I mean that it explicitly permits the act.

In that case, it is reasonable to understand the rule as saying that the God of that religion permits the act.

I may personally feel that my God could never approve of such a thing.

But where does that belief come from?

If it does not come from the religious texts, the prophet, or the recognized sources of my religion, then it may simply come from the God I imagine in my own heart.

As a believer, I may think I am defending the God of my religion.

But perhaps I am doing something different:

I am protecting the God in my own mind from the commands attributed to the God of my religion.

That distinction matters.

The purpose of this discussion was to examine the religious rules that have actually been given to me and judge them by the standard of morality.

It was not to replace those rules with the rules that I personally feel a good God should have given.

And if I allow myself to do that, I must allow followers of every other religion to do the same.

Whenever I criticize a rule in another religion as unjust, unfair, or immoral, its followers can simply reply:

“Our God does not really want people to misuse that rule.”

Suppose another religion permits drinking alcohol and I consider that wrong.

Or suppose it permits stealing and I consider that immoral.

Its followers could simply say:

“People themselves should understand that they ought not to do those things. The fact that our religion permits them does not mean that our religion is immoral or does not come from God.”

If I would not accept that defense from another religion, I cannot use it to protect my own.

And again, rules concerning women and slavery similar in some respects to those discussed here can also be found in other religions.

An ordinary believer may offer one more response:

“You have to understand the historical context.”

They may say that when these rules were introduced, the moral condition of society was much worse.

Compared with the customs and laws of their time, the new religious rules may actually have represented progress.

This claim may be true.

A religious rule can certainly be more humane than the rules that came before it.

But that does not settle the question we are asking.

Morality, as we have defined it here, requires us to look at people according to a principle of equal consideration.

A moral rule such as—

“No one may take another person’s property by force”

—treats everyone as having the same basic right to property.

But a discriminatory rule works differently.

It gives people different rights because of their religion, their sex, or whether they are free or enslaved.

And if such rules are presented by the founder of a religion as complete and permanently valid, the inequality becomes part of the religious system itself.

The rule may still have been better than what came before it.

But that is a different claim from saying that the rule is perfectly moral or divine.

A law can be an improvement without being morally complete.

And most importantly:

Being more moral than the laws that came before it is not evidence that a law came from God.

Otherwise, every later legal system that improved on an earlier one would have to be regarded as divine revelation.

By that reasoning, we would even have to regard the United Nations’ human-rights framework as revelation from God.

How Religion Can Lead Some Believers to Set Aside Morality as a Standard

Earlier, I explained that believers may develop religious bias for several reasons.

Because of this bias, when morality begins to work against their beliefs, they may simply set morality aside as a standard.

They may no longer allow their beliefs to be judged by morality—or even by other standards that could lead to an unwanted conclusion.

But when it comes to morality, there is another psychological factor that may make this even easier.

Most religions promise rewards for good actions and punishment for bad ones.

And the more strongly a religion emphasizes these rewards and punishments, the more they may begin to influence the way its followers decide what is good and what is bad.

Consider the definition of morality we have been using.

According to this definition, I use my conscience.

I put myself in another person’s place and ask:

“If I were that person, would I want someone to do this to me?”

If the answer is yes, I may consider the action good.

If the answer is no, I may consider it bad.

But now suppose reward and punishment in the next world become the main basis of my moral judgment.

I begin to ask a different question:

“Will God reward me or punish me for doing this?”

Something important has changed.

Instead of judging an action by putting myself in the other person’s place, I am judging it by what I expect to gain or lose in the next world.

The more important this calculation of heavenly reward and punishment becomes to me, the weaker my conscience may become as an independent standard.

Eventually, I may even become willing to perform an action that my conscience would otherwise tell me is wrong—simply because I believe that God will reward me for doing it.

The question is no longer “Is this moral?” It has become “Will I be rewarded for doing it?”

This way of judging good and bad can also be used by some religious leaders.

It may give them a powerful way to persuade certain believers to do things that those leaders consider necessary or desirable.

Some believers sincerely want to be good servants of God.

They want to please Him.

They hope to receive His blessings and the rewards He has promised.

And for some of them, the promise of heaven presented by religious leaders may become more powerful than the objections of their own conscience.

Such believers may then be persuaded to beat other people, take part in a religious war, or harass and insult religious or political opponents.

Consider a simpler example.

Perhaps I am a believer who originally avoided backbiting because my conscience told me that it was wrong.

My religion also told me that avoiding it would bring a reward in the next world.

At first, the two standards pointed in the same direction.

My conscience said:

“Do not do it. It is wrong.”

My religion said:

“Do not do it. God will reward you for obeying Him.”

But gradually, something may change.

Morality may cease to be an act of conscience and become a kind of transaction.

Instead of asking whether an action is right or wrong in itself, I may begin to think:

“Whatever takes me to heaven is good.”

At that point, if an action seems completely wrong to my conscience but I believe that there is no religious reason not to do it, I may still be willing to do it.

And the process can go further.

Suppose I come to believe that God’s commands can be found in the words of a particular person—whether that person is a religious cleric or the prophet of my religion.

I may surrender my moral judgment to that person.

If I become convinced that an act is God’s will and that I will be rewarded for carrying it out, I may become willing to do things that I would otherwise have considered clearly immoral.

In an extreme case, a person who has reached this point may even be persuaded to carry out a suicide attack intended to kill men, women, and children in a hospital, a school, a market, a religious gathering, or a political gathering.

The important point here is not the particular act.

It is what has happened to the believer’s method of moral judgment.

Their own conscience is no longer the final question.

The decisive question has become:

“Do I believe that God wants me to do this?”

Once a believer reaches this stage, religious bias and the guardian of the mind may not even need to step in to protect the religion from moral criticism.

Why?

Because morality has already lost its independence as a standard.

The believer no longer needs to set morality aside whenever a religious command appears immoral.

They may have lost the ability to recognize any religious command as immoral in the first place.

And at that point, morality can no longer function as an independent standard by which religion is judged.

Immoral Acts of God or the Gods of Religions

If I am a cleric and have described the god or gods of my religion as perfectly good, I will make every effort to defend everything my god or gods are said to have done.

Let us go directly to an example.

Suppose I am a cleric of one of the Abrahamic religions—Judaism, Christianity, or Islam. I describe my God as perfectly good, generous, and merciful.

A critic may challenge my claim with an example:

“You and I, like people throughout the world, believe that punishing one person for another person's wrongdoing is a clear example of injustice.

“According to the story of Noah, God punished those who refused to believe in Noah by drowning them. The story includes not only adults but children, who could not have been responsible for the disbelief of their parents.

“In the biblical account of the Flood, God did not stop there. The catastrophe destroyed the rest of humanity as well, together with the land animals, except for those preserved in the Ark.

“Death by drowning is painful and terrifying. It can subject an unfortunate living being to terrible fear and suffering before finally ending its life.

“You believe that your God is all-powerful. If He was angry with Noah's people—or, as the biblical account says, regretted having made humankind—He could have destroyed those He wished to destroy without causing them pain. If we assume that the story is true, causing human beings and countless other animals to die such a terrifying and painful death could be described as one of the greatest acts of cruelty and injustice in history.”

The critic may then say to me, whether I am a Jewish, Christian, or Muslim cleric:

“If, according to your own beliefs, cruelty and injustice are evil acts, then you and your fellow believers are worshipping a being who has committed acts that you yourselves would call evil if anyone else committed them—even though your own intention in worshipping Him may be good.”

The critic may continue:

“How can you and your fellow believers entrust yourselves to such a God for comfort and seek refuge in Him?

“Why are you not afraid that at any moment He might again become angry with some group of people and take painful revenge upon living beings on Earth?”

If I am a cleric of one of the Abrahamic religions, I might answer:

“After the Flood, God made a covenant that He would never again do such a thing.”

The critic may reply:

“You believe in a God who is all-knowing, all-powerful, and perfectly good. If God's destruction of human beings and animals in the Flood was a good act, why would God promise never again to perform that good act? And if it was a bad act, why did a perfectly good God commit such a terrible act in the first place?”

The critic may go further:

“Causing one living being to suffer or die for the wrongdoing of another is something we normally regard as morally wrong. How, then, can you be certain that a being who has committed an act that you would otherwise regard as profoundly immoral will not, through another immoral act, break His promise and once again find a reason to destroy the living beings of the world?”